


Empty Heart and Empty Soul

by feathertail



Series: Infinity War Ashes Angst Party [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Ashes Scene in Avengers: Infinity War Part 1, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Clint Barton-centric, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathertail/pseuds/feathertail
Summary: Clint is retired, but no-one is spared, not even civilians.





	Empty Heart and Empty Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeralCreed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/gifts), [MissSparklingWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSparklingWriter/gifts).



He’d thought they’d be safe. Without the bow in his hand, without the quiver on his back, he wasn’t a target, they weren’t a target. They were civilians, no-one could recognise Hawkeye without the bow. Hell, most of the population didn’t know who he and Nat were in the Avengers. Or, at least, they hadn’t. But he was still low-profile, and that was enough for him.

It was a normal day. A normal day where he hadn’t been expecting anything to happen. Anything at all. All of the days before it had been the same – wake up, feed the animals, feed the kids, take the children to school if it was a weekday, escort them outside to play if it wasn’t, get the baby up, kiss the wife, feed the baby, then hand off the baby and go roll around in the dirt with the kids for a while. And today was no different. The kids thundered down the stairs as he came in from outside, kicking off his boots, and he settled at the stove to cook them breakfast, fielding questions of the most inane nature as they fired them at each other and their father. Once fed, they ran outside to go and play on the swing he’d installed in a big, sturdy tree out in one of the fields, under where his current project was taking place – a treehouse for the kids. It’d be finished by the end of the month, if all went well and the weather was good. When Laura came downstairs with Nathaniel on her hip, already screeching and babbling away, his mood lifted even more, and he greeted her with a soft kiss, and one for the baby too, feeding both before grabbing a couple of slices of toast for himself, a glass of juice, and his boots, and heading out to the kids, hauling his toolbox along with him.

It must have been late morning, if not around midday or early afternoon, when he was disturbed from his hammering and screwing by a call from down below. He stuck his head out and clambered down when he saw his eldest son looking more than a little queasy.

“Dad, I don’t feel so good,” Cooper mumbled, and Clint rested his hand gently on his son’s shoulder, frowning when a lot of what seemed to be dust particles flew up into the air.

“Coop,” he started, but he never even got to think about finishing his sentence, as he locked eyes with his son, and then he just dissolved into the air. There was nothing left, his hand waved into empty air.

“Lila!” he yelled, spinning around on the spot, looking desperately for his daughter, mind racing. What the hell was going on? Please let this be a dream, please let this be a dream- he saw her, running across the field towards him, pigtails flying.

“Daddy!”

He sprinted towards her, but even as she ran, particles began to lift from her skin, and by the time he got to the point where she had last stood, she was long gone.

He ran as he had never run before back to the house, reckless abandon filling his every movement as he leapt up the porch steps and skidded into the house.

“Laura? Nathaniel!” he yelled, running from room to room, searching for any sign of his wife and youngest child. “Laura! Nathaniel!” Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t notice, boots clattering as he sprinted through doorway after doorway, searching and searching for any sign of them.

At last, he found them. Or, what was left of them. A small pile of ashes at the door to the armoire in the baby’s room, and in the cot behind, a tiny puddle just the same. He could see it happen in his mind’s eye, had seen them do this enough times – she would be folding clothes, while Nathaniel jumped and bounced in his cot, holding onto the bars and screeching nonsense at his mother. And then, just as Cooper had, and Lila, the slow dissolve into dust.

The world faded into a single, low ringing tone as his knees gave way beneath him, skidding harshly on the carpet but he didn’t care. His mouth opened in a hoarse, bestial scream of anguish, because he knew this wasn’t a dream. He knew in his heart of hearts that if this had been a dream, Laura would have woken him up by now. She- she had been a very light sleeper, and always woke him from his night terrors, lest he scare the children with his shouting. He cried as he had never cried before, everything merging into the single ball of despair and hatred curling and writhing deep in his chest now. Tears soaked the carpet at his knees, and he wrenched at his hair, his skin, his clothes, in such deep despair. He had risked everything when he was fighting, had risked his life, had risked theirs, but now – he’d thought they were safe. In the middle of nowhere, with a bunker for safety should they come under attack, with him to protect them – nothing could go wrong.

And yet it had. It had gone wrong in the worst possible fashion. Because now… he had nothing. His wife, his three children, everything… gone. Vaguely, in the distance, he thought he heard the phone ringing, but it tuned perfectly into the ringing emptiness in his heart. Hours passed, and his throat was hoarse with screaming, eyes stinging and swollen from crying, fists bruised from where he’d beaten the floor and everything within reach into submission, into nothingness. He no longer knelt, but was canted forwards, forehead pressed to the carpet, nails tearing at the fibres as he howled his mourning. Had anyone been there to witness the sight, you would have assumed he had been tortured for months with the agony inherent in his screams, had gone mad with the violent, sporadic and impulsive movements that jerked out every now and then, had had everything within his clutches only to have it ripped from his grasp and all hope slaughtered before his very eyes. Of course, only one of those was true. But it left him nonetheless a ragged man, sprawled on the carpet of a young child’s room, on the upper floor of a house built for at least six.

The wind blew gently through the open window, uncaring of whether it was day or night, disturbing a small pile of dust on the floor next to the weeping man. It wound its way down a corridor with several doors opening onto separate rooms: a young girl’s room, filled with princesses and superheroes, books and hairbrushes; an older boy’s room, with a basketball or three, a dog leash and a bag of biscuits, a pile of books on the desk next to the window; a guest bedroom, which only usually had one occupant, when she was around, spare clothes in the closet there, prepared, washed, folded, with care and love; the master bedroom, with sheets neatly turned down for a fresh night, smoothed out with a wife’s tender care and love for her husband and their relationship; another room, perhaps for storage, perhaps for… other purposes. Those boxes would not be touched again.

And as the wind slowly floated downstairs, it mingled in the common areas, the kitchen, for family dinners, reunions of old friends, romantic nights in; the living room, with a cupboard stocked with board games, and a shelf of old and mysterious, miscellaneous books, a well-worn rug in front of the fire, several armchairs, a sofa, and a baby bouncer; the playroom, which had mostly been for the baby, now, but still had elements of the other children – a chalk drawing of a family on a blackboard easel, numerous paintings, crayon drawings, and other artworks pinned and otherwise attached to the walls, speaking of familial adoration of the highest degree. It passed a closed door, one which led down to the basement, and behind a wall of the basement lay a bunker, for precaution against otherworldly forces, should they come to knock. And they had come to knock, but not in a way in which you could defend against. Not even Earth’s Mightiest Heroes could do that.

It ghosted out of the front door, over multiple pairs of shoes piled in every which way in every which colour, past a rocking horse and a rocking chair out on the porch, past the family truck, the barn, the remaining animals, and spread to the furthest edges of the property, dispersing with a quiet whisper, riding the breeze with delicate, tiny particles that may once have been very much loved. The swing, under the old tree, and the half-built tree-house, swayed gently in the breeze, and then fell still, as if it knew it would never be used again.


End file.
